


Journal Entry One Zero One

by coldwarqueer



Series: Do Not Feed The Dead [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, M/M, No happy endings, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-03-16 14:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3491261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coldwarqueer/pseuds/coldwarqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of audio diaries after the outbreak of an infection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journal Entry One Zero One

The tapes are old and smeared with dirt and blood. They rip at the beginning, before a voice crackles out, “Day one hundred and thirty seven.”

There is a long pause. “Locus. Early March, I believe. It is still cold, the winter was bitter. I’ve moved from the Northeast, too cold for my tastes. I have reason to believe I’ve stumbled into the lower Midwest. No towns lately have had any maps. Scavenged already, no doubt.

“Water: four gallons. Food: eight cans of soup, two cans of chili, and five cans of…” There’s a pause. Rustling, and a pop. “Canned vegetables. I use the term lightly. I found the cans in a bomb shelter with two dead inside. One suicide, one walking. I despatched it with my blade.

“Bullets are in short supply. I’ve had little luck finding any. Crossbow bolts have become a favorite of mine.” There is a heavy pause, as if the man on the recording is pondering a choice.

“I’ve found more and more fresh corpses. Suicides. Many of them have not had the sense at all to destroy the cranium. Many hangings, many slit wrists. It’s…” Another pause. “Unnerving.”

The tape skips and warps, until the man’s voice comes into focus again, halfway through a sentence, “-little function. The dead prefer live meals over dying or dead ones. I’ve encountered hoards of dead devouring deer on multiple occasions. They abandon the corpse after it ceases movement.

“It’s a shame to waste the meat, but I can’t touch it after the dead have ravaged it. There is still no indication whether meat cooked well enough could destroy the virus, but I have no desire to find out.”

A crackle takes the next few sentences in its clutch, rendering it useless. Then, “Signing off. I will record another message three days from now. I need to conserve the batteries.”

* * *

“Day one hundred and forty.” The tape opens with the usual spiel. “Locus. First week of March. Small town. Following the trail of survivors. No reason to assume death. They have been throwing off my tracking, so I have reason to assume military, like myself, or otherwise trained for survival in the wilderness.”

There was a pause, and then, “I never thought I could have thought a once bustling town would be considered the wilderness.”

The man sighs into the microphone. “I’ve been following them for two days now. They must know they’re being followed, because they’ve covered the tracks of their camps when they weren’t the day before. I hadn’t been intending to seek them out at first, but now I’ve become curious. Perhaps, at best, I can trade with them.”

There is a skip in the tape, static fills the dead air instead, until the man’s voice returns with, “Survivors found murdered. Stripped of guns and ammo. No food or water. I had been hoping to speak with them, and if not then I could scavenge their supplies. However-” There was a shout in the background, and a soft curse spoken into the microphone, then gunshots.

The recording went dead, for over ten minutes, until the tape ran out.

* * *

“Day one hundred and forty, part two.” The man’s voice was hoarse, as if he had been yelling. “One survivor found. Claims to have killed the rest of his group. Two men, one woman, and a child.” A pause. “A child.”

There was rustling, and a long exhale. “I never found the body of the child. Survivor says she turned after being attacked by her mother.”

“My name is Felix, jackass!”

There is another exhale, more aggravated, a low rumble trembling off the man’s words. “Survivor says his name his Felix. I have reason to distrust him. Only two of the survivors he was with had turned. Why he killed the other two I have no idea. And now…”

“Get off your toy and come help me haul this fucking body, you prick-” The recording cuts off.

* * *

There is a tape missing, between the ones labeled D140 and D150.

The tape rips at the beginning, before, “Day one hundred and fifty. Mid March. I’ve maintained a camp in the small town I found Felix in. The weather is miserable, the town is full of dead. I don’t even see how such a small town could have such a large population. No one must have attempted to clear out the walking. Buildings have begun collapsing, they are all in severe disrepair. Me and Felix are holed up in an old hotel. No running water. No heat. Felix has blankets.” 

There is a gruffness in the man’s voice. “My last recording I spoke of Felix and his bites.” There is a touch of hesitation in his words. “Felix let me examine them. There are four of them, and they’re all old save for one. I wouldn’t call it fresh, but it’s only been healed for a week now, and that’s being generous with time. It takes a few days for the virus to take hold, but he would have turned by now.

“I have reason to believe his bites are from the beginning of the pandemic, perhaps before anyone realized that is how the virus is transmitted.

“I’ve heard tales from other survivor groups of those with immunity to the virus. Before the radios went out, I intercepted military transmissions about a small percentage of the population who don’t turn after contact with the dead.

“If Felix is immune I would prefer to take him to a group I know of with a doctor. She could study his case. I don’t know the percentage of immunity among humans, but I have no doubt it is small.” There were garbled words, talking in the background. “I’m not done with this journal entry.”

The tape cut, and then picked up again seconds after. “I have determined Felix is a nuisance.

“A nuisance and… And he doesn’t trust me. I understand, of course. I have nothing to give him in return for coming with me. However, he also has no set destination it seems. After losing his group I had hoped he would be eager to partner up. At the very least to trade with me for supplies.”

There was a long pause, only the occasional exhale. “He took the group’s water and their food. He didn’t get far before I found him. However, he seemed fairly… prepared for the possibility of losing his team.”

There was a short start, as if the man were going to speak again. He cut himself off with a short breath, and then a low groan like he were tired. Felix’s voice could be heard in the background.

* * *

“Day one hundred and fifty five. Late March. Moving northwest. Felix has joined me. He spends much of the time talking about himself.”

The pause that is taken is full of a small laugh, quiet and muffled. “I don’t mind it, actually.

“It is nice to connect to another human once more.”

There is silence, only the sound of breathing. Then, “I asked him what he did before the outbreak. He laughed at me and told me he sold televisions at a Wal-mart. I’m not very inclined to believe him, simply because I doubt he ever worked an honest day’s work in his life.”

It took a moment to expand on the troubling thought. “He’s been spoiled most of his life. He reminds me of a child telling stories just because no one can tell if he’s lying.

“Felix told me he likes to draw. He hasn’t made art since the virus. I had an old notepad in my pack, a week ago, with some pencils. I had intended to use it for notes. Maybe I’ll give it to him. As a bartering tool, or perhaps to loosen his tongue.

“I never know what Felix says is true, because… Well, he tells a lot of lies and truths in the same sentences.

“I like Felix. I’m not sure how far that goes, but I can easily see myself partnering up with him for the spring."

* * *

“Day one hundred and eighty. I realize it’s been much time since my last journal entry. Felix has kept me… occupied.”

“With my dick!”

“Felix, these are serious recordings for documentation purposes.”

“At least tell the truth then. That you and me have been trading places on our backs in the tent since-” The recording cuts off, before it revs up again.

“Felix has hence been banned from my vicinity whilst I record these entries.

“Felix is a decent partner, I’ve found. Despite his nuisances. He says he’s survived the outbreak mostly by banding with small groups, pretending to be military or telling them he has special skills. How he managed to bullshit so many people I have no idea.” A pause. “To be fair… Felix is a very good liar. And a good shot.”

There is more idle talk, and the man leaves his recording on as he walks away. The tape is almost removed, after five minutes of silence, until the barest of speech is heard. Then, a gentle moan, “Felix-”

The noises are far off. They sound warm and there is no annoyance or hesitation in the man’s voice.

The tape is turned off, before more intimacy can be heard.

“Day one hundred and eighty eight,” the man said, voice crackling over the recording. His voice is soft and hoarse. “I’ve come down with the flu. As anyone with any sense knows... Flu-like symptoms are the start of the virus. Fever, sweating, vomit, bleeding. I keep telling myself it must be the cold weather we've had lately. I’ve looked myself over, countless times, for bites or scratches, but we haven’t encountered the dead in two days.

“I was concerned, but I’ve found no indication I’ve contracted the virus. Nothing to be worried about. I just need to take antibiotics and cold medicine and hope these symptoms subside.”

The man coughs. It is a painful sound and harsh on the microphone. Then, “Felix is distant. He shrugs off my questions. I’m unsure if he’s worried. He doesn’t seem like the type.”

The man heaves a long sigh, and then coughs again. “Felix is fickle. He’s so… emotional. But when I try to talk with him he clams up. Recedes. It makes me wonder…”

The pause is heavy and rough, and the man coughs again. “I haven’t felt this way about anyone else before. We barely know each other.” Another cough, and then a clatter, feedback, as the microphone is dropped and then picked up again.

“I don’t want to lose him.”

* * *

The final tape consists of nothing but growls and shouts, gunshots, and then quiet words with no hope of being heard.

Dr. Grey takes the last tape out of the machine and stares at it. There are bloodstains on the tape, with “DEATH” scrawled across in messy letters. She brushes her thumb over the ink and turns her head to her assistant. “You have the other one, don’t you? Felix?” she says, sliding the final tape back into place among the well organized cases. “I would like to examine him.”

“He’s resting.”

Grey rolls to her feet and zips up the bag full of tapes. “He’s gone through a traumatic event, the turning of his partner, and then forced to kill him. Perhaps we should start the psychoanalysis?” She smiles and looks back at the bag, then shakes her head. “Shame we lost Locus. Would have liked to see him again. I guess his partner will have to do!”


End file.
